After staring at her for a few more seconds, Edison nodded at the tank. “We will let you take it, and we will wait for your return.”
Cassabrie clasped her hands together. “Oh, thank you! You won’t regret this!”
Marcelle glared at Adrian but said nothing. She picked up hers and Darien’s swords and stalked toward the gas line.
After disconnecting the tank, Adrian, Edison, and Marcelle worked together, with Adrian in the middle, to roll the head-high cylinder through the muddy water. The deeper areas helped buoy their load, but bushes, roots, and stones slowed their progress. Along the way, Marcelle picked up a bag and strapped it to her back, explaining that she had stealthily “lost” it, but she refused to say why a change of clothing needed to be kept secret.
Cassabrie led the march, not offering to help with the pushing. With her gaze fixed straight ahead and the lantern in her hand turned to its brightest setting, her surrounding halo made her look like a glowing ghost.
As they rolled the tank through a denser part of the forest, Adrian watched the strange girl out in front. With her cloak drier now, yet still dirty, it fanned out in the wind. The ghost transformed into a storybook angel, albeit a soiled one. So much mystery! Somehow, she convinced the soldiers that she had died—no heartbeat or breathing. Then, when they stabbed her, she crumbled and later reconstituted herself.
What kind of creature might she really be? Father noticed a strange spirit within. She seemed filled with inner strength, yet her body was so fragile. Maybe that’s why she didn’t offer to help. As thin as a wafer, she might have broken a bone.
When they arrived at the clearing, Cassabrie stopped. “We are here,” she said quietly.
The three pushed the tank toward the center. The water had receded, leaving soft, grassy turf that bent under the weight of the tank as they dug in to roll it the last few feet.
When they finally stopped, Edison leaned against the tank, mopped his brow with his damp sleeve, and looked at Cassabrie. “Now that we are here, little maid, what will you do?”
She handed Adrian the lantern. “Please move to the tree line and watch from there. I will return as soon as I can.”
“Minutes?” Marcelle asked. “Hours? Days?”
Cassabrie laid a palm on the tank. “I truly do not know, my lady. Arxad must test the gas, and I have no idea what that involves. I assure you, however, that I will beg for a speedy trial and return.”
“Let’s just do as she asks,” Adrian said as he backed away, motioning for Edison and Marcelle to follow.
When they had gathered near the base of a fir tree, Cassabrie spread out her arms and looked into the sky. “Arxad? Can you hear me?”
For a moment, she tilted her head, as if listening. Adrian craned his neck, straining to hear a whisper, but the wind made it impossible.
“I know,” Cassabrie continued. “We encountered some obstacles, but all is well now. The people of Darksphere have given me leave to deliver the gas for your inspection, and I promised to return to them right away.” Again she listened, this time with her head bowed. “I realize the danger, but for the sake of my friends, I will accept that risk. It is mine alone to take.”
With arms still spread, she closed her eyes. An aura shone again, enveloping her and the collection tank. Flakes appeared on her exposed skin, as if the light had absorbed all moisture. The breeze peeled them away, layer after layer, and tossed them into a cyclonic spin around her body. Soon, every particle of her frail form lifted into the swirl and blew away.
A silhouette of rotating light remained, still feminine, still recognizable as Cassabrie, and her glow, a sphere of radiance, expanded beyond the tank, taking up most of the clearing. The tank slowly faded, as if ingested by the light.
Marcelle stepped away from the tree and walked slowly toward Cassabrie’s shining form, her eyes focused straight ahead.
“Marcelle!” Adrian called. “No!”
“Someone has to make sure the dragons keep the deal.” She ran into the glow and instantly began fading.
Adrian leaped from the tree, but with a quiet pop, the aura vanished, taking Cassabrie, Marcelle, and the tank with it.
Lifting the lantern high, Adrian ran into the clearing. Not a trace remained.
Edison joined him and set a hand on his shoulder. “Marcelle possesses an independent spirit.”
“I just hope she’s all right. If Arxad’s dangerous …” Adrian let his voice fade. Even if Arxad was a nobler dragon than the rest, he still might be angered by Marcelle’s appearance. The dragon made the deal, and he had not yet broken it. Distrust and trespassing weren’t exactly the best ways for the humans to keep their part of the bargain.
Edison interrupted the silence. “Let’s just pray for Marcelle to be, shall we say, less assertive than usual.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Adrian walked to the indentation left by the tank and looked up into the dark sky. “Cassabrie!” he shouted. “Can you hear me? Arxad?”
“Shhh!” Edison warned. “Remember the soldier who escaped. Following our trail from the pipeline to here will not be difficult.”
“You’re right. If he goes back for help, we might be surrounded in less than an hour.”
“Come. We have some time before we have to douse the lantern.” Edison laid a hand on Adrian’s back. “Let’s conceal ourselves among the trees and have a talk.”
Adrian gave way to the gentle push and walked back to the forest, allowing for his father’s limp, more pronounced now. All that laborious pushing had taken a toll.
After finding a stand of trees packed tightly together, Edison leaned against a wide trunk of smooth tortoise green bark, his head angled toward the sky. Only a step away, Adrian rested against a twin trunk and crossed his arms. Father surely had a speech ready. His pose proved that. With so much time alone in search of his son, and with the amazing sights he had just beheld, he had to be brimming with thoughts.
“Son,” he said in a low tone, “the moment I blessed your journey, it felt as though a logjam broke open. All my doubts and fears rushed out, and I realized what a fool I have been. The loss of my integrity in the eyes of the people made my confidence waste away, and losing Frederick filled my heart with terror. I wanted to gather all my possessions into my arms and hold them close, for fear that another treasure might slip from my grasp.”
Tears glistened in the sage’s eyes as he continued. “Then, when you and Jason left together, seeing you ready to risk your life by marching into the unknown and dangers unimaginable for Frederick’s sake … well, that was like a flint stone that relit a torch long ago discarded. My final doubts drained away.”
He patted his chest. “Frederick is my son, and to build walls of fear around our family, monuments to faithlessness and betrayal, would be to dishonor everything he stands for. I would truly become the traitor that Darien made of me, and perhaps that has been my failing. Every whisper, every askance look, every snicker whittled away my courage until I allowed the opinions of others to shape me into the coward they believed me to be. But, one event changed that course forever.”
As Edison looked up again, his gentle smile trembled. “That event,” he said, his voice shaking as he gazed again at Adrian, “was today’s tournament final. I witnessed an act of courage that only a scant few comprehended. Knowing that his reputation would be crushed and his courage would be castigated, one of the combatants bowed and humbly backed away. And why? Because he believed in a higher calling than that of mob approval. He cared not for the applause of men or a crown of perishable leaves. Oh, no. He sought after the crown that never withers and the blessing that never ends, the pleasure and fellowship of his creator.”
Edison set a fist against his chest. “And that, my son, was the spark, the first glimmer of light from the opening door that set my soul free from the dungeon I had constructed for myself.”
He stepped away from the tree and set a hand on Adrian’s cheek. “Now, I wish to march at your side as th
e fellow warrior I should have been all along. I wish to honor our creator by taking up arms to set his people free, knowing that we will be successful only as we keep in step with his code and call upon him in times of trouble.”
Adrian wrapped his arms around his father and kissed his damp cheek. Drawing their bodies into a tight clasp, he wept as he spoke. “You are my hero, and you always will be. It was your wisdom that taught me to seek heaven’s applause, and I take that wisdom with me everywhere I go. That’s why I was able to leave home without fear, because I knew, even without hearing your marching footsteps at my side, I would be able to hear your words in my heart. Edison Masters is my constant companion.”
After a moment of silent embrace, Adrian patted his father on the back and pulled free. “We’d better concentrate on watching for Marcelle.”
“Yes,” Edison said, “which raises another thought. With a woman such as her in our company, one who will insist on risking every danger we do, we will have to keep one precept constantly in our minds.”
“What precept is that?”
“In assaying the value of blood, hers will always outweigh ours, and anyone who displays a differing opinion is never to be trusted.”
SEVEN
DREXEL stood at the palace’s front door, watching, waiting. Jason, the youngest of the Masters brothers, sat on the marble steps that descended toward the front lawn and the main gate, closed now and soon to be locked for the night. His head hung low as the approaching storm darkened the grounds and cast peals of thunder their way, and his fingers clutched his sandy brown hair tightly, as if vexed by the worries of the world.
Unable to suppress a grin, Drexel nodded. All performers had executed their parts perfectly. With Jason so young and inexperienced, they had maneuvered him like a piece in a game of chattels, the peasant-pawn whose wisdom was nothing more than a list of platitudes, too naïve to guess the motivation behind the forked tongues.
Drexel chuckled. Watching the plan unfold had been like sitting in the audience while a masterful production took place on stage. Jason played the unwitting fool, thinking he was a real bodyguard on duty for the Invocation Ceremony, while a parade of Prescott’s friends followed the script like award-winning actors.
First, the new counselor, Viktor Orion, intentionally flaunting his ceremonial silk, glided up to Prescott and Jason like a waltzing flower and said, “He is a handsome lad, to be sure, Your Lordship. Perhaps he will help us find the Diviner. It is said that the sultry witches are always on the lookout for a callow catch.”
Then later in the evening, former Counselor Darmore said to Prescott, “I see you have chosen another peasant for your bodyguard. I suppose if he dies defending you, it will be no loss. There are many more rats in the sewers who can handle a blade.”
And, as Drexel had hoped, Governor Prescott had laughed at each line, a most spiteful laugh, the perfect poison to weaken the spirit of a boy who wanted nothing more than to be seen as a man. Now he was a humiliated pup, ready to be goaded toward the final step.
Drexel cupped a hand around his mouth to call for Jason, but a rumble of thunder made him pause. Yet, Jason rose to his feet and marched toward the door, a firm resolve in his gait.
“I forgot to give something to Governor Prescott,” Jason said when he ascended the final step. “It’s very important.”
Drexel gazed at the boy’s sincere brown eyes. Now he had to play his own part, even without a script. “What could a peasant have that His Lordship would want at this time of night?” he asked, forcing a scowl. “Bodyguard or not, it had better be urgent.”
“Oh, it’s urgent.” Jason pulled a sheet of parchment from his pocket and smoothed out the wrinkles. “I took this from someone in his inner circle. It appears that one of those crazy conspiracy theorists is within his ranks. Of course, I couldn’t interrupt the ceremony, but I forgot to tell him afterwards.”
Drexel kept his staged frown in place. “You forgot? What kind of bodyguard are you?”
“A new one,” Jason said, offering a bow. “I beg your indulgence.”
Drexel eyed the page. Of course he knew what it was, a copy of the Underground Gateway’s newsletter, but feigning ignorance would likely be the best approach. He reached for it, but Jason pulled it back.
“I must speak to him privately,” Jason said. “It is up to His Lordship to decide what to do with this information. It would be a shame if I had to tell him tomorrow who prevented my access to him tonight.”
Drexel barely kept a laugh in check. This boy had a lot of spunk, and he would need it. He was walking right into the trap. “For a new bodyguard,” Drexel said, “you are a quick student of political maneuvering.” He inserted a key into the door’s lock and released the bolt. What should he say now? This opportunity was so perfect, could he risk a jest that the others could laugh about later? “Take care that you don’t maneuver yourself into a dangerous corner. There are people in the governor’s employ who are far craftier than you realize.”
Jason nodded. “I will leave through the rear door. It’s closer to my path home.”
“Very well. You will find a lantern in the vestibule.”
Drexel watched Jason enter and pick up the lantern. Apparently he didn’t wonder why it was already there, trimmed and lit. Being so inexperienced with the ways of the palace, he wouldn’t know any better.
As soon as Jason walked out of earshot, Drexel entered and locked the door behind him. With a wave of his hand toward a side corridor, he summoned Bristol, the interior night watchman. It was time to execute the most difficult step yet.
When Bristol, a tall, muscular lout, emerged from the darkness, a sword in a scabbard at his right hip and a dagger sheathed at the left, the two followed Jason from well behind, the glow of the lantern guiding their way. They had to be careful not to let their shoes squeak or weapons rattle, or even to breathe heavily. Although the boy was surely green in the ways of politics, his ability to sense someone’s presence was legendary.
After passing through a corridor and into the governor’s private wing, Jason turned down the lantern’s flame and stopped at the bedroom door.
Still in the corridor, Drexel halted and extended his arm, blocking Bristol. This was the crucial moment. When Jason entered, everything would fall into place, but nothing would be certain until he walked in. If he heard Prescott’s snoring from the anteroom, he might turn around and go home. Still, he might enter anyway, thinking he could leave the newsletter where the governor would see it in the morning, perhaps with a note attached. Drexel and Bristol just had to stay quiet and hope the darkness would keep their presence a secret while the boy decided what to do.
Jason set the lantern on the floor and lifted the latch. Pushing the door open a crack, he peered in. A dim light from inside washed over his face, illuminating his anxious expression. After a few seconds, he pushed the door fully open. Leaving the lantern, he tiptoed in. The door closed behind him, but not quite all the way.
Drexel skulked to the door, picked up the lantern, and waved for Bristol to join him. Drexel handed him the lantern and signaled for him to enter.
Bristol withdrew a dagger from his tunic and showed it to Drexel, a grin emerging as the metal gleamed in the lantern light.
Rolling his eyes, Drexel set a hand on Bristol’s back and pushed him toward the door. The oaf had the intelligence of a warthog, but this part of the plan didn’t require brains.
Bristol held the lantern out in front and walked in while Drexel waited in the anteroom, listening. Perhaps Jason would hide, thinking a night watchman had entered to check on the governor, but Bristol had no intention of finding him. He would complete his grisly assignment and leave immediately.
Soon, Bristol returned, the lantern in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other. Drexel grabbed the handkerchief and wiped off its contents, Prescott’s keys and a piece of metal with two bends that made it look like a finger. It pulsed with yellow light, as if infused with burning extane,
the litmus finger.
When they were free of blood, he pushed them back into Bristol’s hand, stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, and took the lantern. He then stood in front of the door, pulling the hem of his tunic down and smoothing out the wrinkles. It was time for another acting performance.
The door flew open. Jason appeared, his eyes wide with alarm. Drexel blocked his way and lifted the lantern. “Have you finished delivering your message to the governor?”
Jason raised his sword, his tremulous voice matching his quivering body. “I have to catch a murderer! Someone has killed the governor!”
Raising a hand to his lips, Drexel let out a low moan. “Oh, dear! The governor has fallen! And it seems that the only person who entered his bedroom was a certain peasant boy who spoke petulantly to the palace’s sentry. Obviously he was an Underground Gateway conspirator who sought revenge on the great governor who forbade his nefarious practices.”
Jason set the sword’s point against Drexel’s chest. “You’re the murderer!”
“Oh, not I.” Drexel gestured with his head, signaling for Bristol to join him. The guard walked into the lantern’s glow, the keys in one hand and a sword in the other. “I have already entered my suspicions in the official log,” Drexel continued, “so killing me would only double your crime. Perhaps you would like to reconsider your offensive posture and join us.”
“Join you?” Jason’s sword arm wilted. “What do you mean?”
“Bristol,” Drexel said, “show us what you retrieved from our dear governor.”
Bristol extended the key ring and the glowing finger.
“Take them.” Drexel kept his voice calm and reassuring. “You will find what you’re looking for in the lowest level of the dungeon at cell block four.”
Bristol laid the key ring and cylinder in Jason’s palm. The boy stared at them, his eyes dark and somber.
“Before today,” Drexel said, “we dared not take this bold step, but now that you have come, we have the means to proceed. You see, when you leave, we will blame you for the murder, and you will be forced to carry out the mission. We have both a warrior and a scapegoat.”